


Sleight of hand

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, excuses to Neal/Peter together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Peter's on the run from the FBI. Neal's totally going to catch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleight of hand

Sleight of hand  
mentions Peter/Elizabeth, Neal/Kate, Peter/Neal  
WC: 4,500  
AU, spoilers for season 4 abound, but also season 4 mostly ignored. Get it?  
PG-13

A/N: Unbeta'd. Rough. You know how I do.

Based on [](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelita26's**](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/) [promt](http://angelita26.livejournal.com/43022.html): The Ol' Switcheroo - Neal is the FBI agent who's been chasing Peter, a white (or blue) collar criminal who keeps eluding him whenever he gets close. Neal sets a trap using Peter's girlfriend/wife Elizabeth and is surprised by their relationship (while his own home life with wife Kate is unraveling). He arrests Peter, but the takedown isn't easy. As Neal recovers from the injuries he sustained, he and Peter start up a pen-pal-ish email exchange that leads to Peter getting released on an anklet in Neal's custody.

Er, I did not follow the promt exactly. Actually, I barely followed it AT ALL.

 

Neal’s been with the FBI White Collar Division less than three years when the file lands on his desk. “You want this one, Caffrey?” Ruiz asks.

He flips it open to see a grainy security footage picture paper-clipped inside of a handsome man, mid-forties, in a grayish suit waving jauntily at the camera.

Oh, yeah, he wants this one.

 

*

 

Neal works late that night, writes up the report on two mortgage fraud cases and flips through Peter Burke’s file longer than necessary. He likes to make up names for criminals. Burke the Jerk, he thinks with a slight smile.

It’s nearly twelve when he slides the files into his briefcase.

The house is dark when he pulls up; he’d told Kate he’d be home by eight, then avoided her calls like a cowardly bastard the next two hours when he realized just how late it had gotten.

By ten, she’d stopped calling altogether.

He strips off his suit with quiet, efficient movements. Kate’s already in bed, face turned away from him, dark hair fanned out behind her. She’s gorgeous, even moreso than when he met her. He reaches out a hand to stroke her hair, then thinks better of it. If she wakes, they’ll just end up arguing. Kids, the late hours he works, they’ve been doing this dance for years.

Neal doesn’t know why he resists, really. He loves his job, he loves Kate, he’s not adverse to kids and it would make her so happy. There’s just a terrible, secret part of him that wonders if he doesn’t love his job more, that if he had to come home early, closed less cases, if he wouldn’t ache painfully for the flash of triumph, the adrenaline.

He slides into bed beside his wife, carefully not touching her. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep are of Burke, head tilted up towards the camera with a knowing smile.

 

*

 

Neal met Kate on one of his first cases undercover working for Vincent Adler. He had the distinct impression that she’d had more knowledge of Adler’s ponzi scheme than she let on, but he’d been too mesmerized by the bright cerulean blue of her eyes to think about it too much. Besides, he kind of liked dangerous ladies.

Kate taught him about all the great artists, fine wine and what cut of suit looked best for his body type.

He worried he wasn’t exciting enough for her, sophisticated enough. While she’d been sipping champagne and eating caviar, he’d been doing pushups at Quantico.

She professed to love him, she was out of a job with no prospects and he was utterly, madly in love with her. Kate moved in with him four months after they met, the day he caught Adler.

They got married two months after that.

 

*

 

Something keeps nagging Neal about the Burke case. He stares at the whiteboard, willing the clues to take shape. His mind feels like a great puzzle with important pieces missing.

He takes a few steps back. Like a Seurat painting, it makes no sense up close, unless you can stand back, take in the whole of it and form the tiny pieces into a larger picture.

“What do you want, Peter?” Neal asks the board. “What makes you tick?”

Peter Burke’s not afraid to cross into other countries, make a few enemies, but over all, he’s known to be a stand-up criminal, if such a thing exists. Brave and smart, keeps his word. Good at thinking on his feet. But he’s been to New York three times the past year. Why?

Neal glances at the pictures tacked up of all Burke’s known associates, his eyes rest on one: Elizabeth, the ex-girlfriend. They’d met when Peter allegedly lifted an important painting from the gallery where she’d worked. They seemed like an odd match. Maybe she had some kind of criminal fetish; they’d dug into her background, she was clean.

About a year ago, she quit her job at the gallery and since then, she’s never stayed in once place more than six weeks. She’s running from him, Neal realizes with a shock. And Peter’s chasing her.

A plan begins to form in his mind.

 

*

 

In the end, they set a trap. They know where Elizabeth keeps a storage unit, find out she’s bought tickets to New York and they send word of where she’s going to be through the criminal grapevine. His strange, elusive, sometimes CI, Mozzie’ll make sure it gets whispered into the right ears.

When they catch Peter, he looks unsurprised. He holds out a hand to Neal, who eyes it suspiciously.

“Thank you,” Peter says. “I couldn’t have found her without you.”

Neal shakes his hand, then slaps cuffs on him. A year of his life spent chasing Burke, this is Neal’s moment. He keeps waiting for the flood of endorphins, the satisfaction to kick in, but mostly he feels disappointed.

It’s the end of a long chapter, time to move on. Neal buys a bottle of decent champagne and roses on his way home, then changes his mind and goes back to the office to write up the report. He forgets to leave a message for Kate -- he’s already thinking about his next case.

 

*

 

When he gets in the front door (only three hours late, Neal’s definitely getting better), he nearly trips over the pile of bags at his feet.

“Kate?” Neal calls out. She exits the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I can’t take this anymore, Neal. I never know when you’re coming home, _if_ you’re coming home.”

He tries to grab her, slide an arm around her waist, but she brushes him off. “Kate, hey--”

“No, I get to talk now. I just, I don’t know. This wasn’t what I wanted.”

“You knew who I was when you married me.”

He watches her small, pale hands clasp, unclasp nervously, with a detachment that feels surreal. This isn’t my life, he thinks. This is all wrong.

“I just, I thought my life would be more than waiting for you,” she says. “I love you, I do, God, I’m so sorry, but I’m meant to be more than this. I _know_ it.”

“This isn’t us,” Neal says miserably. “This isn’t us, Kate, _Katie_ \-- we can’t end this way.” He’s grasping at straws, he sees her intent written all over her face, the firm set of her shoulders. How had he let things get so bad?

“Not everything can last forever, Neal. I’ve thought about this for a long time and I’m sure this is what I want.”

“I’ll leave,” he chokes out. “You, uh, you can keep the house. Keep it all --- I don’t want it.”

He packs an overnight bag quickly while she has a cup of tea in the kitchen. He’ll arrange to have the rest of his stuff moved to storage. Or maybe he’ll leave it all behind.

Before stepping out the door, he looks back, sees her outlined in the light from the kitchen, slim and painfully young looking. Neal’s worn a lot of different disguises with her, a lot of different titles, but in the end, she couldn’t live with any of them.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” Neal says as he closes the door behind him. He almost, but not quite, misses her soft reply, “You, too.”

 

*

 

Neal takes two long, shuddering gasps in his car, wipes his eyes and drives to a motel. The roses he picked up earlier have already begun to wilt, but then again, they’d been in his car for hours and he didn’t take very good care of them.

 

*

 

The motel may not be the worst place he’s stayed, but it’s a close call.

“Snake eyes!” the clerk says and Neal winces, takes his key and holes up with his warm bottle of Champagne and a spare suit. He forgot to pack underwear.

Neal drinks slowly, determinedly taking long pulls off the bottle.

If asked why he became a cop, he’d say it was in his blood, his dad had been a cop and his father before him. And it was, but his dad was a dirty cop who was serving life in protective custody at Sing Sing for homicide. He’d killed another cop -- James had narrowly avoided the death penalty.

Neal’s first years hadn’t been easy, his father’s crimes followed him like a dark cloud wherever he went. He kept his head down, did his job well, began taking deep undercover assignments, anything to avoid his own life.

It wasn’t until five years later that he realized the other cops would never forgive him for being James Bennett’s son.

Neal changed his last name to his mother’s maiden name and applied to the FBI less than month later.

 

*

 

Meeting June is just a serendipitous accident. A quarter of a mile from the motel he’s staying in, he runs into her, _literally_ , sending garment bags flying.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, grabbing at the hangers.

“It’s fine,” she says with a small smile. “Don’t worry too much about it. I was just taking them to the thrift store to donate anyway.”

“The least you can let me do is carry them for you,” Neal says.

“Not many people in this neighborhood have those kind of manners anymore. It used to be more…gracious.”

“I’m new to the neighborhood,” he says by way of explanation.

 

*

 

They lean against the counter at the thrift store and talk.

“My late husband - Byron - was a bit of a con man. I may have helped him out a few times.”

“Yeah?” Neal says, surprised.

“Well, it takes one to know one.”

“I’m not -- I’m not a conman,” he says like an apology. He’s not sure why he feels embarrassed. “FBI.”

June raises one elegant eyebrow. “You go undercover?”

“Sometimes,” Neal hedges.

“And what would you call that, if not conning someone?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

She nods, mostly to herself. “ _Con man_ is just a title,” she says. “Tell me, are you a good agent?”

Neal hesitates. “Define good,” he says finally.

June smiles wider. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

 

*

 

She ends up giving him the suits, sniffing a little at his Brooks Brothers attire. Kate had picked out the blue one he’s wearing today; she’d said it brought out his eyes. He didn’t have it dry-cleaned last time he wore it - the hint of her perfume still lingers around the collar.

The vintage suits require very little tailoring. The pants are tight, too tight -- indecent, even. But he likes the hat.

He calls Kate four times, leaving awkward messages each time it goes to voicemail. He pushes all of his old suits to the back of his closet and hangs June’s suits in front.

June also has an attached apartment, which she agrees to rent to him for $700 a month, mostly because she seems to feel terribly sorry for him when she hears about where he lives.

 

*

 

Neal calls Diana the next morning to tell her he’ll be late, and moves into June’s apartment, thinking that it he ever hears _snake eyes_ yelled at him once more in this lifetime, it’ll be too soon. It’s almost enough to put him off gambling all together, but he enjoys the thrill too much.

Neal hits the bars on his way home from work, hustles cards a little, makes a wad of cash each night, mostly in ones and fives. It’s playing with fire, but he’s never been great at following the rules.

He drinks too much beer at night to help shut his brain down, let him get some rest, but he always follows it with an aspirin and Gatorade chaser because he can’t afford to be too hung over at work.

Neal begins working later, which Hughes appreciates the results of, even if he does keep shooting Neal worried glances. Hughes keeps his mouth shut, though, because they’ve all seen this before. It’s no secret that agents have terrible love lives, generally have terrible marriages and multiple stress ulcers, like a cherry atop a terrible, shitty-life sundae.

He works ninety hours a week and thinks, alone in a sea of empty desks, _this is all I have now_.

 

*

 

The first card he gets from Peter shows up on his birthday. No calls from Kate, one message from his mom. Neal’s surprised she even remembered this year. She’s happy, he guesses, but Burning Man is hell on her memory.

The card is crude, obviously made on a computer from a template, but he feels strangely touched that Peter remembered, which sad and pathetic beyond reason.

Also it’s a little creepy since he’s moved since Peter’s been in prison.

He keeps it on his table for three days before throwing it away.

 

*

 

Neal gets cards from Peter every major holiday for three years. The messages scrawled inside get more personal. Peter tells him how his day went, who he saw, alleged deals he’d made. The notes are always wry, funny, and Neal’s vaguely ashamed at how he waits at the mailbox on days he knows they’ll be coming.

On a whim, he starts writing back. He doesn’t talk about work, because that would be a serious breech of protocol, but he talks about the corner market, how one guy comes in at the same time every day and buys one papaya. Just one.

He tells Peter about the art classes he signed up for last week. He’s always had a fine eye for art, for little details, it’s what makes him so good at White Collar crimes, but he’s never tried his hand at creating. Neal paints a picture of the Empire State Building. On a whim, he copies a Degas from memory next. He likes the Degas copy a lot more than his original painting.

To be a real artist, Neal thinks, you have to have a clear identity, because art is just reality filtered through one person’s perception. The problem is, he has no clue who he is, not really. He’s heard about this from other agents, that consecutive deep cover assignments can really fuck with your head like that. He’s been to see the Bureau psychologists, been cleared for duty, but he secretly wonders if Neal Caffrey isn’t just another skin to slip into at the end of the day.

Neal has too much to drink one night and writes all this down on a piece of sketch paper torn from his notebook, stuffs it into an envelope and drops it into the mail before he can change his mind.

He regrets it the next morning, of course, but it doesn’t deter him from drinking. He just begins hiding his pens before he starts.

A week later, he gets a response and he turns the envelope over and over in his hands, considers throwing it away unopened.

In the end, he opens it, reads it over a bottle of wine, which he’s switched to from beer because the headaches aren’t as bad the next day.

(As it turns out, Peter understands completely. Neal doesn’t know how to feel about that.)

 

*

 

Three weeks later, he’s pursuing The Dutchman and he’s being told that Peter Burke’s escaped from prison with only six months left to go on his sentence.

What an idiot, Neal thinks fondly.

 

*

 

He tracks Peter to an empty apartment, the last known residence of Elizabeth. Peter’s sitting on the floor, holding an empty wine bottle.

“You carrying?” Neal asks.

Peter doesn’t turn. “You know I don’t like guns.”

“Had to ask.” He sheathes his weapon. “It was really stupid to skip out with only six months to go,” he tells Peter, gently chiding.

“I had to find her,” Peter says, tilting the wine bottle up towards the light. “ You know what this is? This is goodbye.”

It’s not like Neal doesn’t understand a thing or two about obsession. He gets it.

“Well, it’s a pretty crappy one, if you ask me,” Neal says, and brings out his handcuffs. “Come on, bonehead,”

Peter scowls as he stands up, takes a look at his suit. “Nice suit -- Devore? On your salary? Maybe I got into the wrong business.”

“A gift,” Neal says, snapping the cuffs onto Peter’s offered wrists, but Peter’s not paying attention, he’s looking somewhere at Neal’s lapel.

“May I?” Peter asks, holding his hands up tentatively towards Neal’s shoulder.

Neal nods, watching his hands carefully as Peter plucks a fiber off his suit. “You know what this is?“

“No clue,” Neal confesses, though it rankles a bit. “It’s from a case I was supposed to be working on before they yanked me off to find you. Thanks for that.”

Peter looks at it speculatively and Neal can practically see the gears turning in his head. “If I tell you what this is, do you promise to come visit me in prison in one week?”

“Sure,” Neal says, curious. It’s not like he has much else to do with his free time, except stalk weird guys who buy one papaya at a time. “We gonna hold hands and talk about our feelings?”

Peter makes a face. “It’s the security fiber from the new Canadian hundred dollar bill.”

Neal watches as officers haul Peter away with mixed emotions. Peter’s not the most devious criminal, nor the most creative, but he’s twisty. Thinks three steps ahead and if he meets with Peter in a week, Neal’s going to have to be five steps ahead.

 

*

 

“The Dutchman. I can help you catch him,” Peter says, face impassive.

Neal’s always appreciated Peter’s poker face; it’s a lot better than his own, he knows. Neal’s face is naturally expressive -- the trick for him is to always let some emotion show, to force himself to feel what he wants to display.

“How does that work?”

“You can get me out of here,” Peter says. “There’s precedence for it. I can be released into your custody and on a GPS tracking anklet, tamper proof -- they’ve never been skipped on.”

“Will you do what I say?”

Peter takes a few deep breaths. “Within reason,” he hedges.

“You’ll go after Elizabeth,” Neal says, but he’s pretty much already made up his mind. He’s a risk taker by nature and it’s paid off on his job so far. Possibly it hasn’t helped him in his personal life, though.

“I wont,” Peter says, leaning forward. Some emotion flickers across his face before it’s gone. “The bottle was goodbye and I’ll respect that.”

What’s really happening here, is they’re two lonely schmucks that have driven away the only women they’ve ever loved, Neal thinks. Except Peter’s a criminal and may or may not skip out of town, ripping up Neal’s career along with him.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Neal lies. He mostly just want to let Peter twist in the wind a little for escaping a supermax prison in two months. It was cool, but it ate up time he could have been working on another case.

 

*

 

A week later, he picks Peter up at the motel the Bureau set him up in. It’s the same on he went to after leaving Kate. It’s still _hideous_.

“You look like a cartoon,” Peter says irritably, taking in his suit and hat.

“This is classic Rat Pack,” Neal says, shooting Peter a guileless smile.

Peter shakes his head. “I can’t believe I got caught by you.”

“Twice,” Neal says happily.

“A fact that I hate myself for every day.”

 

*

 

Diana’s waiting for them at the airport. “Nice hat,” she says to Neal. He grins back. She pretends to hate him, but he’s pretty sure it’s only very mild dislike.

There must be a reason he gets along better with criminals than other agents. Possibly it’s his propensity for lying. And gambling. Either way, Hughes mostly turns a blind eye to his tiny misdemeanors - _foibles_ , really - so long as he keeps his numbers up. And he does have an excellent closure rate, the best.

Peter looks between him and Diana for a minute, eyebrows raised. “I’m Peter,” he says, holding out his hand to her.

“Diana Barrigan,” she says, shaking his hand briefly.

She begins explaining the books - suitcases packed full of cheap Snow White books.

When she leaves to get coffee, Peter turns to Neal.

“She liked your hat,” Peter says in a speculative tone.

“She’d rather be wearing the hat,” he tells Peter gently. “I’m not even on her dance card. No dancing for me.”

“Thought the Bureau had an issue with that sort of thing.”

“That’s the military. The FBI doesn’t ask and doesn’t care.”

“Ah.” Peter’s thumbing through the books absently. “I’d dance with you.”

Neal’s grateful that Peter doesn’t look up, or else he’d see the flush staining Neal’s face and neck.

 

*

 

Peter hands him a slip of paper with an address on it. “The Dutchman’s warehouse.”

“How did you find this?” He tries not to let his incredulity show.

Peter shrugs. “I have my sources.”

“I have something important to ask you.” Neal crooks a finger, signaling Peter to come close. He waits until Peter’s ear is an inch from his mouth and says as seriously as he can manage, “Are you a wizard?”

Peter sighs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Come on, you can tell me.”

“I can’t work like this,” Peter says mulishly. “Prison would be better.”

“Oh, stop that. Prison sucks. Keep saying stuff like that and one of these over eager agents will oblige you.”

“You’d do well in prison,” Peter says thoughtfully.

“Probably,” Neal agrees, “but I don’t feel like testing that theory out today.”

 

*

 

They catch The Dutchman, which yes, Neal’s man enough to admit Peter did almost single-handedly. On the way to Neal’s car, Peter asks about Kate, which Neal still refuses to talk about.

It rained last night, leaving the sky gray and damp. It makes Neal’s hair curl wildly. Impatient, Neal smooths his hair back as much as he can. He should get it all cut off, he gets enough jokes about his lovely lady hair from co-workers.

Neal asks about Elizabeth because he likes to be contrary. To his surprise, Peter answers.

“She chose to leave me,” Peter says, then sighs. “I just -- I needed to be sure of her, I had to know that our story was over.”

“Sorry," Neal says and he means it. Letting love go feels awful, feels like failure.

“So am I. We didn’t even date that long. I was just -- you know that moment when you meet or the first time you touch, and you think, This is going to be the start of something great, something epic.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Neal says, and takes Peter’s arm to steer him around a rain puddle. “I do.”

 

*

 

 The rest of the drive, they talk about art, about Neal’s painting, about his new place. Peter, Neal understands, knows entirely too much about his life. They’ve gotten close while Neal wasn’t paying attention.  
  
Neal escorts Peter inside the motel to his room.  
  
There’s an energy thrumming between them, like low currents of electricity. Neal wonders, if he touched Peter, if they would spark.  
  
Peter invites Neal to his room with a slight smile, like he already knows the answer, which pisses Neal off because he hates to be predictable.    
  
The share a bottle of Jim Beam, straight from the bottle, like they’re teenagers stealing from their parent’s liquor cabinet. Their fingers brush each time they pass the bottle back and forth.  
  
Neal feels the warm tingle of alcohol from his ears to his toes. He sighs happily, relaxed, some unacknowledged fear unknotting in his body .  
  
“Did you know,” Peter says after a while, “how much I enjoyed your letters? You’re not as boring as I thought you’d be.”  
  
“High praise, coming from you,” Neal says. The furniture looks so pleasant, almost happy to see him.  
  
“It really is,” Peter agrees. “You’re different, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’ve been told I’m extremely special. A unique snowflake.”  
  
“You’re special  all right.”  
  
Neal should go home, he’s just too warm here, high from the win, a jumble of nerves and he doesn’t know if he can stand to go back to his apartment which still feels like an empty, foreign place. He only has two glasses, one plate and four sporks. No matter what anyone says, being able to eat meat and soup with the same utensil is a great idea.  
  
Peter’s regarding him carefully, lips pressed into a thin line. God, he’s busy _thinking_. Neal feels a spark of displeasure. He had no clue an international criminal could be so _tedious_.  
  
Peter lays on hand on Neal’s leg, which Neal carefully pretends not to see.  
  
 _This will be okay_ , Neal thinks, _if we don’t talk about it_.  
  
“Can we talk about this?” Peter asks quietly.  
  
 _This will be okay_ , Neal backpedals desperately, _if we drink more_.  
  
“What, you don’t want to go back to prison?” Neal hears himself ask.  
  
“There’s that.” Peter licks his lips and Neal realizes, he’s nervous. “But you wouldn’t send me back unless I deserved it. Neal -- I _know_ you.”  
  
“You don’t,” Neal tries.  
  
Peter interrupts, “You shop at the same place every day at the same time, you wear vintage suits and stupid hats, which look better on you than they have any right to. You’re smart, I can’t decide whether you’re a terrible FBI agent or the best--”  
  
“Hey,” Neal interjects weakly.  
  
“Your original art is incredible. Also? I think you have way too much time on your hands. I saw those cheese plates you made out of empty wine bottles.”  
  
Neal mutters under his breath, “Recyclable and functional.”  
  
Peter leans close, but far enough that Neal has to lean into him for their lips to touch. This is stupid, it’s been to long since he’s touched someone, oh fuck fuck fuck. He takes it all in, the low buzz of the alcohol, the way the overhead light flickers, Peter’s eyes, filling his entire view.  
  
This is a bad idea for so many reasons, but Neal’s always been shit at following the rules.  
  
He leans forward and kisses Peter.  
  
  
*  
  
  
It rains again all through the night, hits against the windows with a steady pounding until it’s all white noise. Peter wraps an arm around his waist, heavy and warm. “What do you think life would have been like if our roles had been reversed? You know, I was the cop and you were the criminal?”  
  
Neal snorts. “Like that would ever happen. Go to sleep, you’re going to need it. Tomorrow, we’re going after The Ghost.”

 

 

 

 

 

The end.

 

 


End file.
